Page 82 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I offered his lordship my hand, and he bowed over it.

‘Hardly old, Oscar,’ said Lord Alfred. ‘Mrs Stoker. The pleasure is all mine. And please, call me Bosie. Everyone does.’

‘I thought that name was reserved for only the closest of friends,’ pouted Oscar.

‘Any friend of yours, etcetera. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs Stoker, I would like to steal this man away. There’s someone I wish to introduce him to.’

Just as Oscar was led off, Hall and Gilbert replaced him. ‘Honestly,’ Gilbert all but snarled, ‘it’s shameful the way that man parades his young lovers about like this is a molly house.’ He fell into Oscar’s recently vacated seat.

‘That’s what the scandalmongers are prattling,’ said Hall, watching Oscar across the other side of the room. ‘They say young Mr Ross is soon to be supplanted.’

‘By whom?’ I asked, already knowing and not even bothering to defend Oscar. I too had been shocked at how openly Oscar displayed his … preferences. My heart went out to poor Constance. No wonder she’d absented herself from this salon – from them all. I glanced towards Lady Jane. Did she know what Oscar was doing? Did she care? Perhaps she thought that if she allowed him to be with his friends under her roof, he was safe from judgement.

No-one was safe from that.

But then, what did Oscar care? He’d always flouted the rules, defied convention. He’d railed against the strict policing of moral boundaries for years, called out the hypocrites. Those who constantly broke the rules but were rich enough, or titled enough, for their behaviour to be overlooked. My eyes strayed towards the prince. Not everyone could flaunt their dalliances the way nobles did. Most had the sense to hide their indiscretions. Oscar was either too proud or too foolish to conduct what was widely regarded as his immoral business in the shadows.

How long would it be before the gossip grew to a roar and calls for him to be made an example of reached a crescendo?

‘Oscar may have bitten off more than he can chew if he sets his sights on the young lordling,’ said Hall, glancing at Lord Alfred. ‘He hasn’t taken into account the lad’s father.’

‘His father?’ I asked, trying to recall who that might be.

‘The Marquess of Queensberry,’ provided Gilbert.

My eyes widened. I’d met the marquess. A short, brutish-looking man with thick square eyebrows and coarse sideburns, he’d been divorced twice and had a reputation as an utter thug. He’d established some rules around boxing – a vicious sport – that were named after him. I cast a sympathetic glance at Lord Alfred. He, Oscar and Mr Ross were conversing with a very attractive woman of middling years. Uncaring who might see, Oscar draped an arm across Lord Alfred’s shoulders, much to the evident dismay of Mr Ross.

Lillie Langtry and her escort chose that moment to arrive, distracting everyone – especially Call-Me-Bertie.

Only Oscar was unmoved, remaining defiantly where he was, right by Bosie’s side.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

London, May 1895

Time is described in a myriad of ways by poets, writers, artists, merchants and even ordinary folk. We’re all at its mercy in one way or another. We have too little, or too much. We rush, we loiter; we spend it wisely or foolishly. Too often we neglect to consider its passing until, one day, something happens to draw attention to what we’ve squandered. Then, all the days, weeks, months and years that have been and gone concertina into a singular terrible moment where time stands completely still.

This was that moment.

The bells chimed four o’clock as I alighted from the cab outside the Lyceum. Instead of entering through the public doors, I used the Burleigh Street entrance reserved for Bram, Harry and Henry.

The corridors behind the stage were busy with stagehands and chattering extras. I barely registered their voices as I pushed past them.

‘What’s Mrs Bram doing here?’

‘She never comes backstage this time o’ day.’

‘What’s got in her knickers?’

Bram was in the office. Much to my relief, he was on his own, bent over the never-ending paperwork.

‘Florrie!’ he exclaimed, putting down his pen and half-rising. ‘Thank God. I’ve scarce been able to think. Is there a verdict? What’s the judge said?’

I shut the door and leaned against it, trying to gather my scattered thoughts. It was one thing to reach the theatre swiftly so I could tell Bram what had happened on the last day of Oscar’s trial, quite another how I was going to do it.

In the years since that afternoon at his mother’s when he’d flaunted his young men, affected indifference towards society’s disapproval, and continued to behave as if he was somehow exempt from the rules, Oscar had become increasingly reckless. The fears I’d harboured for him that day had finally been realised – in a court of law.

‘You better sit down,’ I said to Bram, pulling up a chair, taking off my gloves, removing my coat. There’d been a light rain, and the wool was damp. I stared at the dark stains on my shoes.